A Matter of Conscience
by jenlee1
Summary: When an investigation goes awry, Watson is forced to consider the consequences of his absence.
1. Chapter 1

"Begging your pardon for disturbing you, Doctor, but do you know where I might find Mr. Holmes?"

Inspector Lestrade was courteous, as always, but his impeccable manners did nothing to allay my displeasure at finding him on my doorstep at half past one on a Sunday afternoon. I had hoped that, once I left Baker Street to begin my married life, I might be the recipient of fewer unexpected visits from Scotland Yard officials, but it seemed that it was not to be.

"I'm afraid I don't, Inspector—I haven't seen him since yesterday afternoon, in fact, and I've no idea what he's been up to since then." I'm ashamed to say that I nearly bid the inspector good day and concluded the interview then and there, as I had no desire to spend the afternoon searching London for my errant friend. Particularly because, likely as not, he was safe and sound in the rooms above one of the boxing rings he frequented on the weekends, sleeping off the effects of too much alcohol, or any number of other substances.

However, I admit to a small measure of curiosity as to what could be important enough for the inspector to be spending _his_ Sunday doing just that, given that police officials are known to be as quite as jealous of their leisure time as physicians, and so I pressed on with the conversation. "I gather that there has been some development in one of the cases he's working on for you?"

"Indeed there has," the inspector responded gravely, "You may be aware that Mr. Holmes has been assisting us in investigating a string of burglaries over the past week—stolen jewelry, mostly, worth a small fortune in total."

"I am," I replied. "I went round to Baker Street for lunch yesterday, and he spoke about it at great length. He thought he had a lead on where the thieves might be keeping the stolen goods, as I recall."

"Well, if he has a lead, we could certainly use one," said the inspector grimly, "because it seems that our thieves are murderers, as well." I raised my eyebrows in surprise, as Lestrade continued. "There's been another burglary early this morning—similar scene to all the rest, but they've killed a maid this time. We're assuming she stumbled upon them during the break-in, and they didn't want to leave a witness… but of course, that's all speculation for now," he hastened to add. "At any rate, we'd like Mr. Holmes to have a look at the scene as soon as possible. It seems that these people are nastier than we thought, so there's bound to be a great deal of pressure to catch them immediately, once word gets out."

"Undoubtedly," I agreed. I shivered slightly, although I couldn't be sure whether it was an effect of the inspector's grim story, or the result of the gloomy drizzle that had begun to fall. "I only wish I could be more helpful to you in locating him. I'm sure you've been to Baker Street already?"

"Oh, I tried that first, naturally. The landlady says he left a little before 9 o'clock last night and hasn't been back since." He lapsed into silence.

"I see." I stood quietly for a moment. Surely, the most likely scenario remained the one I had first imagined. Nevertheless, a nameless chill had settled in the pit of my stomach. I wondered, fleetingly, if his revolver was still lying on the cluttered table in his sitting room.

Lestrade cleared his throat, softly, and glanced away. When he looked back at me, his voice was carefully neutral, as though he didn't want to alarm me. "Do you know where Mr. Holmes thought that they might be keeping the stolen goods?"

I was already ducking back into the house to get my overcoat and scarf. "Yes, and I'm coming with you."

After a hurried explanation to Mary for my sudden departure, I stepped back outside and pulled the door shut behind me. Lestrade was already striding down the walk toward his waiting carriage. As I quickened my steps and hurried after him, I hoped, for the first time I could recall, that my friend was indeed inebriated and in a state of disarray in some seedy betting establishment. The alternative, I confess, was infinitely more worrisome.


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N:_** _Thanks so much for the kind reviews on the first chapter! This is actually my first foray into the world of fanfic, so the encouragement is much appreciated :) Anyway, on to Chapter 2…_

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I pulled my overcoat tighter around me, shivering in the drizzle as Lestrade and I stepped out of the carriage in front of the abandoned factory building. The inspector looked skeptically at me.

"You're sure this is the place?" he asked. "None of the burglaries have been in this area."

I shrugged, distracted. My eyes were already scanning the empty street, hoping to pick up some trace of my friend's presence. "If I recall correctly, he was basing his conclusion on a distinctive bit of soil he found at one of the crime scenes." It was conceivable, I thought, that a group of thieves might be using this place as a hideout, or a storage facility. The area appeared to be quite deserted, save for Lestrade and myself.

In any case, we were wasting valuable time. I motioned to the empty building. "Start from the front. I'm going to circle around back and check for a rear entrance. Shout if you find anything." Unlike Holmes, I was unaccustomed to barking orders at Scotland Yard officials, but these were unusual circumstances. Lestrade, to his credit, did not object to my instructions or my manner of giving them. He gave a brisk little nod, and strode off in the direction of the building's front entrance.

Moving to the side of the building, I stepped into the alleyway between the old factory and the equally dilapidated warehouse adjacent to it. I had not advanced more than five or six steps into the alley when, ahead of me in the distance, I caught sight of a crumpled figure lying on the ground near the back corner of the building.

For an instant, I forgot to breathe. Forcing my feet to move, I covered the remaining distance in seconds. As I approached, I could see that my friend lay on his side, curled protectively around his midsection. He was alarmingly still, and he did not stir as I dropped to my knees beside him and pressed my fingers to his neck. Almost immediately, I breathed a sigh of relief—his pulse beneath my fingertips was weak and thready, but it was there.

My most pressing fear alleviated, I turned my attention to the rest of his body. Gently, I brushed my fingers over a mass of congealed blood in the hairline just above his right temple. His skin was cold to the touch, and I wondered anxiously how long he had been lying here. Exposure, combined with a concussion, would certainly account for his unconscious state; however, his curled position suggested other injuries as well.

Carefully, I placed a hand on his shoulder and began to ease him onto his back. Despite my gentleness, the movement elicited a strangled groan as Holmes was wrenched painfully back to consciousness. He blinked up at me, dazed and uncomprehending.

"Holmes, it's all right," I said softly. "It's me. Just lie still." At last, his unfocused gaze met mine and I saw a flicker of recognition, and something like relief. He closed his eyes again, but his left hand reached out to grasp the edge of my overcoat as I knelt beside him, his trembling fingers tightening on the rough wool. My throat constricted painfully, and I rested my hand on his forehead, careful to avoid the laceration above his temple.

"I take it you found your jewelry thieves?" I inquired softly.

A faint smile quirked the edges of his lips, although his eyes remained closed. "Indeed," he murmured. "The encounter did not unfold entirely the way I had hoped, as you may have guessed."

He stiffened as my hands returned to their careful examination, pressing gently on his abdomen. As my probing fingers moved to his ribs, he cried out in pain, twisting away from me. "All right, all right," I whispered, my hands moving to his shoulders in an attempt to calm him. Clearly, then, there was some damage—he was breathing in ragged gasps, his face contorted in pain. In addition, now that he was conscious, I could see that he was holding his right arm protectively against his body.

My train of thought was interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps in the alley behind me. "Doctor!" Lestrade's voice was breathless from running. "You found him, then?" He stopped, worried eyes fixed on my friend, and swore softly. "How bad is it?"

"I don't know yet," I answered, hating the tremor in my voice. "Bring the carriage around. We need to get him someplace warm and dry, where I can examine him properly."

He turned immediately and rushed back up the alley; I could hear him calling for the carriage driver before he reached the front corner of the building. Returning my attention to Holmes, I touched his shoulder again, but his eyes were closed. His clothing was wet from the rain, and I could feel his body trembling under my hand. Silently urging Lestrade to hurry, I slipped off my overcoat and draped it over him. Then, settling myself once more beside him on the cobblestones, I tucked my legs beneath me and eased his head into my lap, pressing my fingertips again to the pulse point on his neck.

"You're going to be fine, old boy," I whispered. I wasn't sure if it was a reassurance or a command, but in any case, Holmes gave no sign that he heard.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N**: Thanks again for the kind reviews--they are very much appreciated :) Here is Chapter 3..._

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Upon Lestrade's return, it was quickly decided that I should take Holmes back to my residence, owing to the close proximity of my medical supplies and the existence of an extra bedroom; since I had removed all of my furniture and belongings from Baker Street, it was no longer well-equipped for medical emergencies.

The carriage ride was torturous; there wasn't room for Holmes to lie down properly, so we had positioned him half-sitting on the narrow bench, leaning back against me for support. He drifted in and out of consciousness, only marginally aware of his surroundings, but he was clearly in agony as we rattled over the cobblestone streets; each bump in the road elicited a nearly inaudible groan, and he shifted restlessly in my arms despite my attempts to keep him still.

Lestrade, sitting across from us on the opposite bench, looked on wordlessly. His usual exasperation with my friend was absent, and I found that, under the circumstances, I was unexpectedly grateful for his presence.

At last, to my relief, we arrived at our destination. Mary clapped a hand over her mouth in shock as the inspector and I made our way through the foyer with Holmes' unconscious form. Breathlessly, I instructed her to gather the supplies that I would need, and she hurried to do as I asked. With some difficulty, we made our way to the spare room and settled Holmes on the bed.

He was, if possible, even paler than he had appeared in the alley, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. It appeared that the ordeal of being lifted and transported had depleted the last of his strength; he did not stir as I removed his boots and socks, then set about stripping off the outer layers of his wet clothing. Lestrade, after some initial hesitation, provided what assistance he could. I was appreciative of his help, but once my friend lay on the coverlet in only his shirtsleeves and trousers, I hesitated.

"I'll see to it from here, Lestrade," I said, turning to face him. He nodded his understanding; medical care was my domain, and I preferred to tend to my friend without an audience present. For his part, although the inspector was an ally, of sorts, he was undoubtedly not eager to spend his afternoon playing nursemaid to Sherlock Holmes.

He waved off my thanks as he turned to leave. "I'll need to question him, when he's up to it," he told me apologetically. "We could use any information he can give us about our thieves." He paused in the doorway to cast a final anxious look at Holmes, lying pale and still on the bed, then turned and disappeared down the hall.

As his footsteps receded, I turned my attention back to my unconscious patient. There was no evidence of blood on his shirt, but his reaction to my earlier attempt to examine him suggested that something was very wrong. Steeling myself for what I might find, I undid the row of buttons and moved the fabric aside to expose his upper body. The clinical detachment I was striving for faltered as I took in the extensive bruising across his abdomen and rib cage; small wonder that he had flinched away from my touch in the alley.

A careful examination of the damaged areas revealed no evidence of internal bleeding, for which I was profoundly grateful. However, it came as no surprise when my probing fingertips encountered several fractured ribs. I winced in sympathy; I could bandage his chest to provide some support, but even so, he would not be able to move or breathe without pain for several weeks. Still, it could be much worse, and I said a silent prayer of thanks that so far I had found nothing life-threatening.

After determining that there was no obvious damage to his shoulders or collarbone, I set about removing his shirt completely. With great care, I gently maneuvered his injured right arm free of its sleeve. There was bruising evident here as well, just above the wrist, and I swore softly as I palpated the area. The radius and ulna were both fractured, judging from the unnatural instability beneath my fingers, and there was no telling what harm might have been done to the surrounding soft tissues. If there was nerve damage, he might never use his hand properly again. My own hands trembled as I gently replaced his arm on the bed, struggling to stifle an overpowering sense of guilt.

My self-recrimination was interrupted as Mary bustled into the room with the supplies I had asked for. She looked at Holmes, concern evident on her kind face. "How is he, John?"

I glanced up from where I sat on the edge of the bed, making an effort to smile reassuringly. "He just needs rest, darling, not to worry." My gaze returned, unbidden, to my injured friend, and I lowered my voice. "He'll be all right."

She appeared unconvinced, as her eyes took in the bruising on his arm and upper body, the blood in his hair, and his general appearance. Nevertheless, she did not question my pronouncement. Placing her bundle of blankets and medical supplies on a chair beside the bed, she pushed up her sleeves determinedly. "What can I do?"

I looked at her in some surprise, before smiling gratefully. Under my direction, she helped to hold Holmes in a sitting position as I carefully wound a bandage around his ribcage, then slipped a clean nightshirt over his head. As we settled him back onto the bed, I noted with some relief that he was already breathing more easily.

That task accomplished, Mary worked at starting a fire in the fireplace, as I turned my attention to the head injury. Gently, I cleaned away the blood with a wet cloth, to get a better look at the wound underneath. The laceration was deep, requiring a few sutures, but his pupils were equal and reactive to light. Although it would be impossible to know for certain until he awoke, it seemed likely that the head trauma was not serious.

Finally, after splinting his arm and binding it securely across his chest, I tugged off his trousers and settled him beneath the sheets and coverlet, piling on the extra blankets Mary had brought. The fire now crackling in the fireplace was quickly warming the little room, but my friend's face was still terribly pale.

Outside the window, the sun had begun to set, filling the room with a soft glow as I sank wearily into the chair beside the bed. It was difficult to imagine that, just a few short hours ago, I had been preparing to sit down to afternoon tea with my wife, blissfully unaware that anything was wrong. _Thank Heaven for Lestrade_, I thought with a touch of irony. _He may have saved Holmes' life_.

I studied my friend's face in the fading light. With the blood cleaned away, and the neat row of sutures hidden in the hairline, I could almost pretend that he was sleeping. Leaning forward, I rested a hand on his arm beneath the blankets, careful to avoid his injuries. "I'm so sorry, old chap," I whispered, my eyes stinging. "I'm so very sorry." Not unexpectedly, I received no reply.

It was sometime later that I was awakened, still propped upright in my chair, by a gentle hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Mary watching me, her eyes filled with sympathy. "John," she said softly, "Why don't you go on to bed? You won't do him any good if you collapse from exhaustion before he wakes up."

I shook my head, tired but determined. "He can't be left alone."

She smiled gently. "Then I will sit with him until morning. Go on, John—I'll wake you if anything changes."

Reluctantly, I acquiesced; I couldn't expect to function as a doctor if I could barely stay awake. As I stood, Mary pulled me into an embrace. "I know you feel guilty, John, but you mustn't torture yourself," she whispered. "You didn't do this."

"No," I agreed bitterly as I pulled away. "I was across town when it happened, which is no better."

Without waiting for a reply, I turned and left the room. Pausing only to remove my boots, I stretched out across our bed in the room I shared with Mary and closed my eyes. As exhausted as I was, sleep came quickly.

I dreamed of cold rain, and wet cobblestones, and silence.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N**: As always, thanks so much for the kind reviews on the previous chapter--I really appreciate them :) _

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For the second time in a few short hours, I was awakened by a whispering voice and a soft hand on my shoulder. I drifted for a moment between sleep and wakefulness, until my mind managed to process what my wife was saying--_Holmes was awake_. At that, my eyes snapped open of their own accord, and I heaved myself off the bed at once. As the room was still quite dark, I surmised that I had not slept long, but I didn't stop to ask what time it was as I slipped past Mary into the hallway.

At first glance, Holmes looked much as I had left him a few hours earlier. The stress of his injuries had obviously taken a toll on his normally sharp senses, as he did not stir when I stepped into the room and quietly closed the door behind me. I was within an arms-length of the bed before a creaking floorboard finally alerted him to my presence, prompting him to open his eyes. Despite the state he was in, he regarded me from the bed with his usual perceptive gaze, taking in my rumpled clothes and disheveled hair, as well as the dark circles under my eyes. "Good Heavens, Watson," he stated without preamble, "you look ghastly."

"Well then," I replied wryly, settling into the chair beside the bed, "we shall have to get you a mirror, because you're in no position to speak on the matter." I leaned forward to check his pulse, which was considerably stronger and more regular than it had been earlier, then carefully examined the sutures above his temple for signs of infection. "How do you feel?"

He sighed, casting his eyes toward the ceiling as he submitted to my exam. "Why do you insist on asking that question, when the answer is obvious? I feel as well as can be expected, considering the circumstances. However," he continued, with a significant look at the pitcher on the bedside table, "I am quite unbearably thirsty—if you would be so kind?"

I was glad to oblige, given that he had consumed nothing in almost a day and a half. As gently as possible, I slipped an arm beneath his shoulders and began to ease him up into a sitting position. He tensed as the movement strained his injured ribs, his left hand grasping at the bedclothes as he struggled not to cry out. "Easy, old fellow," I whispered. "Just a moment—there." I settled him against an extra set of pillows, and he lay back, pale and trembling, eyes tightly shut against the pain.

Determinedly resisting the urge to hover, I turned away and busied myself at the bedside table, taking rather longer than necessary to pour a glass of water. Once his ragged breathing behind me had slowed and quieted, I replaced the pitcher on the table and returned to my chair, holding out the glass. His left hand was steady as he reached out to take it, but I kept my own hands close by as he brought it to his lips.

"Careful, now," I warned. "Drink it slowly, or you won't keep it down."

Even as I spoke, I could see that his initial eager gulps had given way to tentative sips; I preferred not to speculate on whether he was heeding my advice, or already feeling ill. Moments later, he abruptly handed the glass back to me, still half full, and I watched with some concern as he leaned his head back against the pillows and closed his eyes, looking thoroughly miserable. Definitely the latter, then.

Wordlessly, I returned the glass to its place on the table, pausing to dampen a washrag with water from the pitcher. Turning back to my friend, I pressed the cool cloth to his face and neck, wiping away the tiny beads of perspiration on his forehead. He swallowed hard, leaning into the soothing touch.

"All right?" I asked at length, keeping my voice low. "Do you need me to fetch a basin?"

For a long moment, I thought he wasn't going to answer. At last, he shook his head, eyes still closed, and motioned for me to take the cloth away. "Perhaps," he murmured as I sat down again, "I am not so very thirsty after all."

"That's all right, old chap," I said gently, hoping to reassure him. "It's an effect of the concussion—you'll feel better in a few hours." Hoping to take his mind off of the nausea, I steered the conversation in a different direction. "Would you care to enlighten me on what happened to you?"

"Well," he replied, clearly grateful for the distraction, "My burglary investigation took an unexpected turn, obviously."

"Obviously," I agreed, leaning back in my chair. "One would hope that this wasn't the outcome you planned on."

He gave me an affronted look, but pressed on as if I hadn't interrupted. "As you have no doubt surmised, I went to confirm the location of the stolen property we spoke about over lunch. Which," he hastened to point out, "was exactly where I thought it would be."

"Very clever of you," I commented, motioning for him to continue.

"It was," he agreed, with a hint of his usual smugness. "Apparently, they keep a guard on the place during the night, which I hadn't anticipated. I was slipping out the back door into the alley, congratulating myself on a successful reconnaissance mission, when I encountered a rather large man carrying an iron bar. " He hesitated, avoiding my gaze, before waving away the unpleasant details with a flick of his hand. "The rest, I trust you can work out for yourself."

I could, all too easily, having been present for many similar altercations over the years. Holmes could be maddeningly careless with his own safety, neglecting even the most basic precautions when he was hot on the trail of some new development in one of his cases. When we worked together, I had been largely successful at keeping him from serious harm, with a few notable exceptions. Now that he was working alone, he would have to be more cautious, and I felt a sudden, irrational surge of anger at his apparent inability to understand that.

"I suppose you had forgotten your revolver, as usual?" I snapped, surprised at the sharpness in my voice.

Holmes raised his eyebrows at my tone. "Well, my dear Watson, you suppose incorrectly," he replied brusquely. "I went so far as to pull it from my pocket and attempt to fire it, in fact, but I'm afraid he was too quick for me." He indicated his right arm, bound and splinted across his chest. "Broken, I assume?" he inquired, with an air of mild interest. I nodded wordlessly, as my throat was suddenly very tight. "I thought so," he murmured, closing his eyes briefly at the memory.

I gazed at him, stricken, but he fixed me with a penetrating stare and continued mercilessly. "I was on my knees, scrambling to retrieve it, when he dealt the blow to my head. After that, of course, I remember very little. However, I can assume that he spent some time venting his displeasure on my ribs, judging from the condition I find myself in. What more do you wish to know?"

There was nothing more I wished to know; indeed, I had heard far more than I wanted to. I was, quite suddenly, unable to speak, almost unable to breathe, and I rose abruptly and turned away from the bed in a futile attempt to hide my distress. As I stared, unseeing, out the bedroom window, my mind conjured images of Holmes lying helpless on the ground after the attack, barely conscious and in too much pain to seek help. I recalled the relief in his eyes as I knelt beside him, the way his fingers had clutched at my coat, and was overcome by a wave of guilt so powerful that I nearly choked on it.

I could not see Holmes' face, but I could almost feel his piercing gaze on my back. Clearly, my reaction was not what he had expected, and his agile mind was engaged in working out this latest puzzle. When he finally spoke, several long moments later, his voice was steady and matter-of-fact.

"Watson," he said dispassionately, "you cannot possibly imagine yourself responsible for any of this."

At that, I whirled to face him, unable to keep silent. "Can't I?" I asked bitterly. "Holmes, if I had been there—"

"If you had been there," he interrupted impatiently, "any number of things might have happened. Perhaps, with your assistance, I would have escaped unharmed. Alternatively, perhaps we both would have been killed." He waved his hand dismissively. "It is meaningless to speculate."

"You could have died," I whispered helplessly, desperate to make him understand. "You were lying in that alley, and I was having tea."

He barked out a short, humorless laugh, regarding me with an odd mixture of amusement and resignation. "That's what you're supposed to be doing, old boy—such is married life, or so I'm told. As for myself--," he shrugged wearily, as though it didn't matter. "I know the dangers of my trade." He closed his eyes and sank back into the pillows, clearly exhausted.

As the conversation was obviously tiring him, I was forced to let the matter drop; after all, I was his doctor as well as his friend, and for now, he needed rest more than he needed apologies. But I remained in my chair at his bedside for quite some time, watching him drift off to sleep, before I rose at last to slip quietly out of the room. For the moment, it seemed, there was nothing more to say.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N**__: I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter up… life has been busy this week. And thanks so much, as always, to everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment—writing fanfic is a bit of an experiment for me, so it's really nice to hear your thoughts on how it's going :)_

_So anyway, here's Chapter 5…_

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Exhausted by our conversation, Holmes slept until well after midday. He awoke feeling considerably stronger, but after a certain amount of badgering, he allowed me at last to examine him again, staring at the ceiling with an air of aggrieved tolerance as I carefully inspected my handiwork. His ribs were still exceedingly sore, as they would be for some time yet, but the tight wrapping I had placed around his chest was doing its job; he was able to breathe, at least, without undue difficulty. And although he admitted to a slight headache and some lingering light sensitivity, the head wound seemed to be healing nicely as well.

His injured right arm was another matter—apart from the obvious fracture, I was still uncertain about what other damage might have been done. Now that he was awake and alert, the time had come to find out, and I removed the outer layers of bandage material with some trepidation. I prodded gently at each of his fingertips, asking him to open and close his hand as I watched intently.

At long last, I let out a breath that I hadn't realized I was holding, relieved beyond words to discover that his fingers retained their normal sensitivity and range of movement. I had not allowed myself to dwell on the possible implications of nerve damage to his hand, but now that the danger was past, I said a silent prayer of thanks that my friend would still be able to play his violin and perform his delicate chemistry experiments, among a thousand other things that were vital to his well-being.

Holmes had been watching me closely as I examined his arm, no doubt inferring from the tension in my shoulders and the intensity of my focus that something very important was at stake. He did not ask what I was looking for, but I suspected that he knew, as he often seemed to know things without any explanation needed. As I finished my examination, his eyes met mine, seeking confirmation that my unspoken fear had been avoided. At my nod of reassurance, he relaxed into the pillows behind him, his eyes slipping closed for a moment in silent thanks.

And at last, for the first time since I had dropped to my knees beside him in the alley, I allowed myself to relax as well. Although it was still painful to think that I had not been there when he needed me, it seemed that at least he would suffer no lasting harm because of it. "It's fine, Holmes," I said softly, as much for my own benefit as for his. "It's all going to be fine."

****************

Although I was pleased to see my friend's condition improving, it came as no surprise that his patience for bed rest was wearing thin as his strength returned. By mid-afternoon, he was bored and restless, and I agreed at last to help him dress and move into the sitting room, provided that he was willing to eat something first. Thankfully, the nausea he had experienced the day before seemed to have passed, and he managed some tea and toast without any apparent discomfort.

Getting him dressed proved to be a matter of some difficulty, given that his movements were still severely limited by the pain in his ribs. Between the two of us, we maneuvered him into a clean shirt and trousers, with his arm supported in a makeshift sling, and he managed to shuffle gingerly into the sitting room under his own power. He collapsed on the settee with an air of quiet relief, and I smiled in understanding. Although he would continue to need a great deal of assistance until his injuries had begun to heal, it was much more comfortable to be a houseguest, lounging in the sitting room, than a bedridden patient.

I had just settled myself into the adjacent armchair when a distant knock at the front door announced the presence of a visitor. A familiar voice exchanged pleasantries with Mary in the hallway, and moments later, Inspector Lestrade peered in through the half-open sitting room door. He nodded politely at me as he stepped into the room, but his eyes widened as he noticed Holmes, reclining casually on the settee with a fair approximation of his usual grace.

"Mr. Holmes!" he cried, surprise evident in his voice. "By God, you gave us a scare. I wasn't expecting to see you up and around so soon, I can tell you." He sounded genuinely pleased, and once again, I felt a reluctant surge of affection for the inspector. It was true that he and Holmes were in a nearly constant state of exasperation with each other whenever we worked with the Yard. But despite that, I knew that he had a great deal of respect, and a certain amount of fondness, for my eccentric friend. Holmes must have had similar thoughts, as the merest hint of a smile flitted across his features at Lestrade's greeting. But it was gone in an instant, as he cleared his throat impatiently and waved our visitor toward the other armchair.

"Well, Lestrade," he drawled, "I trust that you brought us some news about the case? If you've just happened by to inquire about my health, I shall be very disappointed."

"Indeed I did," the inspector replied evenly, refusing to rise to the bait, "but you might want to have a look at this first." He tossed a newspaper onto the table, crossing the room to seat himself in the chair Holmes had indicated. Even as I reached for it, I could see the cause of Lestrade's consternation; blazoned across the front page was the dramatic headline: SHERLOCK HOLMES INJURED IN BRUTAL ATTACK.

"Lovely," I sighed, unfolding the paper for a better look. Holmes watched silently from his position on the settee, his expression unreadable.

"We tried to keep it quiet," Lestrade explained, "but we had a team at that building yesterday, going over everything." He shrugged apologetically. "As much as we wish it didn't, that sort of thing attracts attention—the press got wind of it somehow."

"Well," I remarked, scanning the article, "it's mostly speculation, of course; they don't seem to have any idea what you were doing there." A sudden, unpleasant thought struck me. "But if your jewelry thieves didn't know who it was that they attacked—"

"They certainly do now," Holmes finished for me. I put the newspaper aside and stared at him, struggling to stifle a growing sense of disquiet.

Lestrade shifted uneasily in his chair. "Right, well… that's the problem, isn't it?" He hesitated, glancing uncomfortably at me, before addressing Holmes again. With characteristic directness, he drove to the heart of the matter. "Do you think your attacker meant to kill you?"

Holmes shook his head thoughtfully, considering the question as he would any other puzzle. "No. There was nothing to stop him; if he had meant to kill me, he would have." I winced at that, but he did not seem particularly distressed at the idea, continuing his train of thought in the same detached, contemplative manner. "I'm certain he didn't recognize me. It was quite dark, as I recall… he must have taken me for a vagrant, snooping around the building, which wouldn't be unusual in that part of town. Of course," he added pensively, gesturing at the newspaper, "now that he is aware of my identity—and presumably, the purpose of my visit—he, or his employers, may regret that decision."

His words hung ominously in the air, and Lestrade nodded, as though his suspicions about the situation had been confirmed. "Watch yourself, Mr. Holmes," he said grimly. "These people are a nasty sort."

"I'm aware," Holmes replied dryly. "But come now, Lestrade, bring us up to speed. Did your men find anything of interest in the building?"

The inspector shook his head seriously. "Not much, I'm afraid. They must have cleared everything out before we arrived."

Holmes sighed, tilting his head back against the cushions. "I thought as much," he murmured, his voice low. "It's unfortunate that I wasn't able to apprehend my assailant," he added, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I daresay he could have provided some very useful information."

"Well," Lestrade said heavily, rising from his chair, "if anything else happens, you'll be the first to know." He tipped his hat to both of us, turning to leave. "In the meantime," he added, glancing back at Holmes, "if you'd take a look at our latest crime scene when you're feeling up to it, I'd be much obliged."

I shot the inspector a warning look, but it was too late—Holmes had lifted his head at once, instantly alert. "You have another crime scene?" With an effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, a brief flash of pain crossing his face. "For Heaven's sake, Lestrade, why didn't you say so?"

"Mr. Holmes," began Lestrade, glancing apologetically at me, "believe me, it can wait. It happened on Sunday morning, but the family's gone to the countryside for a few weeks, so nothing's been disturbed. My men are keeping an eye on things—another day or two won't make any difference."

Holmes gave a great, dramatic sigh, as though Lestrade were missing some thoroughly obvious point. "Perhaps not to you; for a man of my talents, it makes a great deal of difference indeed. It is impossible to guess what details may have already been altered with the passage of time." Even as he spoke, his eyes were casting about for his coat and boots.

"Holmes," I said firmly, inserting myself into the conversation in an effort to make him see reason. He looked at me in some surprise, as though he had momentarily forgotten I was there. "Listen to me. You are in no condition to go anywhere."

He scoffed dismissively, waving away my concerns without a second thought. "I believe, Watson, that I am quite well enough for a short cab ride and a brief visit to the home in question." As Lestrade was still standing nearby, I refrained from pointing out that, only moments earlier, he had barely managed to walk as far as the sitting room without help.

At any rate, I knew that I was fighting a losing battle; any reasonable appeal to his health would be utterly lost on him, now that his attention was fixed on the case. As always, I had only two choices: I could come along to pick up the pieces, or simply get out of the way. I sighed inwardly as I rose from my chair, realizing that there was nothing else for it. "Let me get my coat."

As Holmes and Lestrade both glanced at me in surprise, I attempted to salvage something of my dignity. "As it happens, I have no patient appointments scheduled until five o'clock," I explained, in what I hoped was a reasonable tone. "Of course, it wouldn't be in any official capacity, but perhaps I can be of some help in the meantime." I shrugged, elaborately casual, as though my interest in accompanying them was a matter of courtesy, and had nothing to do with the fact that Holmes looked as though he might topple over at any second.

I watched my friend's face as he realized that I was offering to participate in the investigation, and for an instant, he looked so innocently delighted that I nearly forgot to be aggravated with him. But the fleeting expression was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and he raised an inquiring eyebrow at the inspector. "I assume you have no objections, Lestrade? An extra pair of eyes could be very useful."

"None whatsoever," he responded affably. "Your help is always welcome, Doctor." He glanced knowingly at me; clearly, my attempt at feigning casual interest in the case was fooling no one.

That settled, Holmes cleared his throat impatiently, clearly anxious for us to be on our way. Although I had to help him on with his boots, he waved away my offer of assistance as he pushed himself off the settee. He winced briefly as he straightened, but it seemed that the pain barely registered; his eyes were alight with the thrill of a new puzzle, and he set off determinedly, if somewhat unsteadily, for the door as Lestrade and I trailed behind. _As always_, I thought ruefully.

As we left the house and moved toward the waiting carriage, I felt a vague sense of unease about the whole affair. Regardless of his fragile health, there would be no dissuading Holmes from pursuing the case, but I hoped that he wouldn't get more than he bargained for. If these people were truly as dangerous as they seemed, we would have to tread carefully indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:**__ I continue to be amazed, and flattered, at the lovely comments I've been receiving. Thanks again—you guys are awesome :)_

* * *

Our destination was some twenty minutes away by carriage, and Holmes took full advantage of the opportunity to question Lestrade on the details of this most recent burglary. The inspector dutifully relayed all the information he had, which was not much more than he had given me during our brief conversation on Sunday afternoon. The home belonged to a relatively wealthy family, like the others that had been targeted, and several small items of substantial value had been taken. The distinguishing feature, as I already knew, was the murder of the family's unfortunate maid in the course of the theft.

By the time we arrived at the scene, Holmes' energy was flagging a bit, although his enthusiasm was undimmed. He unobtrusively took my arm to keep his balance as we alighted in front of the house, and I did not miss the barely audible grunt of pain that escaped as his feet hit the ground. In truth, I doubted his ability to remain upright for the length of time necessary to conduct his investigation, but there was a great deal to be said for adrenaline and willpower, and I had been wrong about such things before. In any case, I had already made my position on the matter clear; short of tying him to his bed, there was nothing more to be done.

Lestrade started for the door, but Holmes halted almost immediately, putting up a hand to stop him. Without explanation, he turned from the walkway and circled around the side of the house, ignoring us completely as we trailed behind him. He moved systematically, pausing here and there to inspect something that caught his interest, until at last we had made a complete circle and arrived back at the front door.

Although his perusal had taken less than two minutes by my estimate, his face had already taken on an alarming pallor, and it was obvious from his stiff, careful movements that he was in considerable pain. Despite that, he regarded us with a strangely satisfied air, as though he had already discovered something significant, and nodded at Lestrade. "Lead on, my good man," he ordered brusquely, and Lestrade, patient as ever, turned once more toward the door.

The house was unnaturally quiet, given that it had stood empty for the past two days, and our footsteps echoed loudly in the silence as we stepped into the foyer. Once again, Holmes took the lead, moving quickly and efficiently through the first floor of the house. He halted briefly in each room, eyes searching methodically for details that only he could make sense of, until we came at last to the drawing room. There, he strode immediately to a thick, upholstered armchair and sank gratefully into it, closing his eyes briefly as if to gather his strength.

"Tell me, Lestrade," he said at last, "Where was the maid's body found?"

"In the kitchen, near the broken window," replied the inspector.

Holmes nodded decisively, as though confirming something in his mind. "And do you have a theory as to what happened to her?" His tone was reminiscent of a teacher questioning a rather slow pupil, but Lestrade was too accustomed to my friend's manner to take undue offense at the unflattering implication. He simply raised an eyebrow, clearly perplexed.

"Well," he said slowly, "it's pretty clear, isn't it? She must have surprised them on their way out, poor thing, and they didn't want to leave a witness."

"Incorrect!" Holmes rapped out, his eyes gleaming. He shook his head pityingly at the inspector. "Really, Lestrade, you and your men have had access to this scene for two days, and that's the best you've been able to come up with?"

"All right, then," countered Lestrade, obviously nettled. "Why don't you tell us what you think happened?"

"What _did_ happen," Holmes corrected, "was this. Our burglars entered the house by breaking the kitchen window. You had probably deduced that for yourself," he acknowledged generously, "given that it was exceedingly obvious. The broken glass in the kitchen—"

"Right," Lestrade interrupted impatiently. "We noticed that, believe it or not."

"And I am most impressed at your investigative abilities," Holmes agreed innocently, "but as usual, what you failed to notice was just as significant. Did you, by chance, happen to see the footprints on the ground outside, just under the window in question?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact we did," replied Lestrade, a bit defensively.

"Excellent," said Holmes, inclining his head graciously. "Did you also see that each and every print is directed toward the house, and none are directed away? Or that there are no shards of glass to be found there?"

Silence. Lestrade stared at him, flummoxed, and I smiled in spite of myself. My friend was not mean-spirited, but he allowed himself certain amusements at the expense of Scotland Yard; it was not one of his more generous qualities, I'll admit, but the two of us had derived a great deal of enjoyment from it during the time that we had worked together.

"I thought not," Holmes concluded, with the barest hint of a smile. "But, as you see, that detail makes all the difference. Barring the unlikely possibility that our thieves climbed out very meticulously, and walked backwards away from the house—"

"They did not leave through the kitchen window," I finished, and he glanced up at me, smiling in earnest.

"Precisely, Watson. I must say, you are wasting your talents by choosing to focus on your medical practice. As it happens, the back door is presently unlocked; assuming that it was locked when the family went to bed, that would seem to be the most likely point of exit."

"All right, then," conceded Lestrade, "but what does that have to do with the maid?"

"It tells us," Holmes replied, his eyes glinting sharply, "that she had the misfortune of catching them in the act of breaking the window to enter. The easiest, and most prudent, course of action for our thieves would have been to turn and flee into the night. Instead, they climbed into the kitchen, murdered her, and then continued as planned."

Lestrade whistled softly, shaking his head in wordless amazement.

"Indeed," agreed Holmes. "Any thief might resort to violence if cornered, with no visible means of escape and the threat of capture imminent. Cold-blooded murder, in order to remove an inconvenient obstacle, is another matter entirely. These men must be apprehended with all due speed, preferably before they strike again."

"Well, that's what we've been trying to do," Lestrade said darkly. "I don't suppose you have any brilliant ideas as to how else we can go about it?"

"I think a change of approach is in order," replied Holmes cryptically. I raised my eyebrows, as did the inspector, but he declined to elaborate further. "At any rate," he continued, sinking back into the cushioned chair with an air of finality, "I believe we're finished here." He passed a hand over his eyes in an uncharacteristic display of weariness, apparently feeling the effects of his ill-advised exertion.

Lestrade nodded in agreement. "I'll get a team in to make sure everything is documented, before the family comes back," he said. He glanced worriedly at Holmes, then at me. "There's no need for you two to stay, of course," he added. "My driver can take you back to Cavendish Place." I smiled gratefully at him as he left the room to make the necessary arrangements. As his footsteps receded down the hall, Holmes spoke again.

"And now, Watson, I believe I require your assistance." His voice was faint, but steady.

I stepped closer to the chair, observing him critically. Objectively speaking, he looked terrible; his face was nearly white, and his eyes were glazed with exhaustion. He stared up at me in mute appeal, and I divined the problem at once. "You cannot stand, can you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he replied shortly, although without a great deal of conviction. "I think you'll find that if you place your arm just so—there, precisely—and give me your shoulder, there's a good chap—I most certainly can stand. Let's give it a try, shall we?"

His fingers dug painfully into my shoulder as I all but lifted him to his feet. Despite his bravado, he contributed very little to the endeavor, and I was forced to keep hold of him for several long moments before he had steadied himself enough to step away. I knew better than to offer my arm for support, never mind that he clearly needed it; he would rather take his chances with collapsing on the floor than display such visible weakness in front of Lestrade.

He had just managed to straighten up, his mask of composure firmly back in place, when the inspector returned. "Right, then, it's all set," he said. "I appreciate your help on this. Both of you," he added, looking at me. I shook his hand as Holmes nodded expressionlessly, having no energy to spare for pleasantries. "Take care of yourself, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade told him earnestly as he started for the door, and I held back a smile. Holmes would no doubt be horrified at having elicited such concern from him, but the inspector meant well, as always.

I kept close behind my friend as we left the house, but he made his way down the walkway to the street without incident. All things considered, he was doing an admirable job of concealing his fatigue and discomfort; only the slow stiffness of his gait and the tight set of his features betrayed the pain he was undoubtedly feeling, as every movement jarred his injured ribs and arm, and his body demanded rest. Surprisingly enough, he even managed to climb into the carriage without my help, breathing an audible sigh of relief as he sank onto the bench inside.

The moment I had settled beside him on the narrow seat, he slumped bonelessly against me, his head resting easily on my shoulder. The gesture was comfortable and familiar, and without thinking, I adjusted my position slightly to accommodate him. It was true that he had ignored my medical advice, with predictably poor results, but I was finding it surprisingly difficult to remain displeased with him. His chest rose and fell against my side in a quick, staccato rhythm, as though it hurt too much to breathe deeply, and I felt a pang of empathy in spite of myself.

"Ribs hurting?" I asked quietly, feeling him shudder beside me. "I can give you something for pain, if you need it."

He chuffed a breathless little laugh against my coat, although his eyes remained closed. "Don't fuss, mother hen," he murmured. "I'm all right." His words were slurred with exhaustion, but the affection in his voice was plain.

"Oh, I can see that," I replied wryly, giving up my aggravation altogether. In some strange way, I had missed this odd routine of ours, but I wasn't prepared to examine that too deeply at the moment. "I certainly hope this little jaunt was worth it."

"Of course it was," he chided me. "We need to catch these people, the sooner the better."

"And I suppose you have a plan, then?" I asked, remembering his words earlier.

He sighed, reluctantly. "I do, as it happens." He tilted his head slightly to look at me, his expression unreadable. "But you won't like it, I'm afraid."

I wanted to press him further, but his eyes had drifted closed again, and I could see the effort it was costing him to speak. In any case, before I could formulate a reply, his slack features and slow, even breathing told me that he had fallen asleep on my shoulder. _Probably for the best_, I reflected. But as I shifted slightly in my seat, careful not to disturb him, I wondered uneasily what he could possibly have in mind.


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N:**__ All right, I think we're in the home stretch here… I'm anticipating another 2-3 chapters, and that should do it. As always, thanks so much for your comments—the encouragement is more valuable to me than you can imagine :)_

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Holmes' plan, as I had suspected, was exceedingly risky. The fact that it also made a great deal of sense did nothing to allay my concerns about it.

"Are you out of your mind?" I leaned forward in my chair, staring at him in horrified disbelief.

He returned my gaze, steely-eyed and determined, from his position on the settee. "It's the most logical course of action, given our limited options," he answered, his voice infuriatingly calm. Without waiting for my reply, he turned inquiringly toward our guest in the other armchair. "What say you, Lestrade? If the Yard can offer a better way to approach the problem, I should be glad to hear it."

The inspector had agreed to join us for tea and a discussion about the case, in light of the previous day's excursion to the crime scene; indeed, we had seen so much of him over the past few days that I could not fathom how he was getting any work done. Of course, I have no doubt that he would have vehemently denied any particular personal interest in Holmes' recovery, had anyone asked.

He considered the question at great length before replying. "Honestly, Doctor, it's not a bad idea." He spoke carefully, directing his comments toward me with a certain amount of apprehension. "We can protect him, if it's done right."

"Well, that's the trick, isn't it?" I snarled, suddenly furious. "He wants to provoke these people into making an attempt on his life, when he's already _injured_, and that's all you have to say?"

Lestrade stared at me, startled into silence by the intensity of my reaction, but Holmes intervened before I could berate the inspector further.

"Watson." He spoke firmly, but I fancied that there was an unusual hint of gentleness in his voice. I turned reluctantly to face him, and my anger faded as quickly as it had come upon me, leaving only a vague sense of helpless frustration. His idea was not unreasonable, and I knew it. But the attack on him in my absence had shaken me to the core; I was suddenly, painfully aware of everything that could go wrong, and the idea of Holmes deliberately placing himself in such danger again, particularly given his weakened condition, was more than I could bear.

His eyes bored into mine, as perceptive as ever, undoubtedly discerning the reason for my uncharacteristic reluctance.

"There is a certain amount of risk," he acknowledged, with a faint half-smile. "It would be foolish to pretend that there isn't. But you have my word," he continued, now deadly serious, "that I will take every precaution."

I held his gaze for a long moment, and he looked back steadily. "See that you do," I said finally, giving way to the inevitable.

He nodded, evidently satisfied, before turning back to Lestrade. "It seems the matter is settled, then," he declared. "And now, Lestrade, you may tell the press anything you like—let them work for us, for a change. Tell them that I discovered something vital to the case at the factory that night, that we are on the brink of arresting the entire ring. Make it sound convincing—I want an assassin at my door this very night, if you can manage it." His eyes fairly gleamed at the prospect, and I would have worried for his sanity had I not been accustomed to such things.

Lestrade nodded, following his train of thought. "And I'll have the troops waiting," he finished.

"Precisely," Holmes replied, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. "If we can predict where and when they make their next move, then we have the advantage."

His reasoning was sound, as always, but I wished desperately that there was another way.

******

And so it was that, despite my reservations, I found myself climbing through a narrow window at the back of the house to gain entrance to our rooms—or more precisely, Holmes' rooms—on Baker Street at half past six that evening. Holmes, as we had arranged, had departed several minutes ahead of me in a cab, so that he could be observed entering his flat unaccompanied. It was our hope that any would-be attackers would seize their opportunity while he was apparently alone and unguarded, allowing the Yard to spring their trap.

I had some minor difficulties with the window, but at last, I managed to scramble inside and pull the shutters closed behind me. Thankfully, Holmes must have briefed Mrs. Hudson on the situation before my arrival, as she only raised a mildly disapproving eyebrow at my rather unorthodox entrance. After a hasty apology to our long-suffering landlady for the trouble we were causing, I quickly ascended the stairs to join my friend.

He was waiting for me in the sitting room, curled in one of the high-backed armchairs with his pipe dangling from his lips, looking for all the world as though he were simply spending a pleasant evening at home, relaxing by the fireside. I was unprepared for the wave of nostalgia that swept through me at the familiar sight; for an instant, I was transported back to my bachelor days in these rooms, when we had spent many such quiet evenings together. Holmes glanced up at me as I entered, snapping his pocket watch closed with a decisive click, and the spell was broken.

"You're late," he observed amiably, raising his good hand to take the pipe from his mouth. "I thought you left ten minutes after I did?"

I rolled my eyes, closing the door behind me. "I had to climb in through the back window, as you may recall. It adds a few minutes to the trip."

"I suppose so," he replied, pretending to consider the point, "particularly if one isn't skilled at it. Not to mention, you've torn your trouser leg." He didn't bother to hide his amusement at my muffled curse, as I discovered that he was correct. On the contrary, his eyes glittered impishly as he watched me, shaking his head in mock dismay. "It seems that you're out of practice, old boy."

Ignoring the jibe, I crossed the room and dropped with easy familiarity into the other armchair. Fixing my eyes disapprovingly on the pipe in his hand, I opened my mouth to say a few words on the inadvisability of smoking in his present state, but he interrupted before I could begin.

"Save the lecture about the pipe," he sighed, waving his hand impatiently. "My ribs are sore, but I can breathe very well, thank you."

I shrugged indifferently. "I wasn't going to say a word about it."

"Of course not," he replied agreeably, lips twitching.

"_At any rate_," I pressed on, eager to change the subject, "There's been no activity yet, I take it. Have you seen Lestrade and his men?"

"_God_, yes," he groaned, as though the Yard's incompetence were physically painful to behold. "Any idiot could have seen them, blundering about across the street. When _will_ they understand that wearing plainclothes does not make them invisible? Fortunately," he added, with a trifle less exasperation, "they've since spread out and moved down the street a bit… with luck, they won't be spotted after nightfall."

I sat quietly in my chair, suddenly tense. Playful banter aside, a knot of apprehension had formed in the pit of my stomach as I was reminded of the reason for our presence here tonight. Holmes, too, had lapsed into silence, and I wondered if he was nervous as well. Come what may, I reflected grimly, we were prepared for it. If all went well, the whole unpleasant business would be behind us by morning.

******

Needless to say, the two of us spent a thoroughly sleepless night in the sitting room. My nerves became more frayed with each hour that passed, and Holmes smoked ever more heavily on his pipe, until I could barely see him through the thick haze in the air. At last, as the cold light of dawn began to filter in through the windows, there came a knock at the door downstairs.

Moments later, a bleary-eyed Mrs. Hudson opened the sitting room door to admit Lestrade, looking nearly as tired as I felt. "Well?" he asked, stifling a yawn. "What's the report?"

Holmes shrugged. "We have passed a remarkably uneventful night, as you can see. And you?"

"Not a thing," answered the inspector, scowling faintly. "And I've got a dozen men down there who won't be any use until they get some sleep, not to mention myself."

Holmes nodded, seemingly lost in contemplation. "We seem to have miscalculated, obviously," he observed at last.

Without offering any further thoughts, he stretched painfully, his abused muscles protesting their extended period of immobility, and pushed himself to his feet. I followed suit, reaching for my coat and hat; it seemed that we were finished here, for the moment.

"What now, then?" asked Lestrade, his voice plainly irritable. "I'm sure I don't need to remind you that we still have a ring of thieves on the loose."

"No, Inspector," my friend answered sardonically, "I am very well aware of it. If you would be so kind as to come round again this afternoon, perhaps we can discuss the subject further?" Lestrade acquiesced, although with a certain amount of reluctance, and Holmes stepped past him toward the stairs without another word.

The matter thus settled, the two of us returned straight away to Cavendish Place, as I needed to attend to my practice and, at my insistence, Holmes needed to sleep. In short order, he had stretched out on his bed in the spare room without bothering to undress, and I was preparing to see my first house-call of the day.

I was tired, certainly, but not unbearably so. In any case, I had from time-to-time worked with far less rest during my days in the army, and I would be an insult to my profession if I allowed a sleepless night to keep me from seeing patients. Accordingly, after confirming that my friend was resting comfortably and kissing Mary goodbye, I set out for my appointment. It seemed, however, that fatigue had taken its toll on my mind, for not ten minutes after leaving the house, it dawned on me that I had neglected to bring my bag.

There was nothing else for it; I would have to go back. With a heavy sigh, I turned and retraced my steps, noting with a touch of irritation that my carelessness would almost certainly make me late. Once back at the house, I strode quickly through the foyer, checking my watch anxiously. As I turned the corner into the sitting room, however, I stopped dead in my tracks at the scene before me.

Mary stood in the center of the room, weeping, her eyes wide and frightened. The room itself was in a state of disarray; at a glance, I took in the overturned chair, the shards of glass littering the rug, and the open window behind her, curtains fluttering gently in the breeze. At the sight of me, standing in the doorway, she gave a great sob of relief, stumbling towards me. "John," she cried, "thank goodness you're back!"

I grasped her urgently by the shoulders, staring into her terrified eyes with growing alarm. "Mary, what's happened?"

"There was a man," she sobbed, pointing at the window. "He had a knife—" She took a deep, gasping breath, obviously struggling to compose herself.

"Did he stab you?" I demanded, my gaze sweeping frantically over her for any trace of blood.

"No," she gasped out, "no, I threw a vase at him—he tried to strangle me. But—"

As I absorbed what she was telling me, I realized, with a rising sensation of dread, that there was only one possible explanation for what had happened here. And if that were true… "Mary, where is Holmes?" I demanded urgently, gripping her shoulders hard.

"He shot the man," she sobbed, "at least I think he did." A quick glance confirmed that my revolver was missing from its place on the table, and there were spots of blood visible on the rug. It was her next words, however, that filled me with horror. "John," she cried desperately, pointing again at the window, "you don't understand—he went after him!"

For an instant, I simply refused to believe it. Holmes would not, _could not_, be so reckless as to take off, alone and injured, chasing a would-be murderer through the back streets of London. It was wishful thinking, of course, and the part of my mind that knew better insisted that it was exactly the sort of thing that Holmes would do.

Before I had entirely finished processing her words, I found myself moving involuntarily toward the window, as if drawn by a force beyond my control. I paused to glance guiltily back at Mary, still weeping, the red marks on her neck standing out in stark contrast to her white skin, but she grasped the urgency of the situation as completely as I did. "Go," she told me earnestly, attempting a brave smile as she wiped at her face with a delicate hand. "He needs you more than I do, right now."

I would have kissed her, but there wasn't time. Without another moment's hesitation, I vaulted over the windowsill onto the street outside, praying fervently that this time, I would not be too late.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N:**__ My apologies, yet again, for the delay in getting this chapter up, especially after that rather cruel cliffhanger... sometimes, real life is very inconsiderate! I hope you find it to be worth the wait :)_

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The moment my feet hit the ground outside the window, despite my wild, irrational desire to take immediate action of some kind, I forced myself to stop and consider the situation; if I were to have any chance of overtaking Holmes, I first had to determine which way he had gone. Away from the main streets, I decided quickly, and into the shadows. The man he was pursuing would want to distance himself, as much as possible, from the noisy, crowded bustle of people and carriages.

Praying that my reasoning was correct, I set off accordingly as quickly as I dared, scanning every side street and alleyway for some sign as I hurried past. After covering a distance of several blocks in this manner, I was beginning to doubt my decision when at last, with a stab of fear, I spotted what was almost certainly a bloody footprint on the paving stones. Confident now that I was on the right track, I continued at a dead run, hoping desperately to catch them before something terrible happened.

At last, dashing down another of the seemingly endless shadowy backstreets of the city, I caught a glimpse of my friend, far ahead, apparently still very much in pursuit of his assailant. All things considered, he was moving well, and I was relieved to see the gleam of my revolver in his left hand as he passed through a patch of sunlight. _At least he's armed_, I thought ruefully. It didn't excuse the utter lunacy of what he had done, but it was something.

He had nearly reached the far corner of the street, and before I could call out to him, he turned and darted out of sight into a narrow alleyway, eyes obviously fixed on his quarry. I raced ahead, heart pounding, but I was still several yards away when my chest clenched on a knot of icy dread, as a series of unsettling noises reached my ears: a familiar cry of pain, a thump, and the unmistakable sound of a metal object skittering across the cobblestones.

Never in my life have I known such a dizzying combination of fury and terror. In an instant, I had rounded the corner to find Holmes, unbelievably, holding his own in a vicious struggle with a tall, burly behemoth of a man. Under normal circumstances, I would have been reasonably confident in my friend's ability to handle himself; he was no stranger to such altercations, and I had, in the past, seen him dispatch attackers twice his size with practiced ease.

This morning, however, he was on his feet by sheer force of will, and his injured right arm, still immobilized in its makeshift sling, was a significant handicap. To be sure, the odds were somewhat evened by the obvious bullet wound in the other man's shoulder, but he had the natural advantage of size and strength, and Holmes, exhausted and clearly in pain, lacked something of the grace and agility that usually served him so well in such encounters.

They were an incomprehensible tangle of whirling bodies and striking limbs as I rushed forward, but before I could intervene, time seemed to slow to a standstill. I watched helplessly as Holmes stumbled and dropped to one knee, chest heaving desperately as he struggled to breathe through the searing agony in his ribs, and his opponent's face twisted in malicious satisfaction as he seized his opportunity.

Stepping forward, he grasped Holmes roughly by his shirt collar, lifting him into the air as though he weighed nothing, and flung him backwards into the cold, unforgiving wall of the nearest building. There was a sharp crack as his head struck the unyielding bricks, and he landed hard in a motionless, crumpled heap. In the blink of an eye, the would-be assassin had snatched the forgotten revolver from the ground and turned back to his target, eyes shining with deadly purpose.

There was no time to form a strategy, or even to think past the roaring in my ears and the white-hot rage that nearly blinded me; I simply barreled straight into him, slamming into his body at full running speed as he leveled the gun at Holmes' head. He was considerably larger than I was, but the element of surprise worked in my favor; his shot went wide, the bullet ricocheting harmlessly off the wall as the gun was knocked from his hand, and the sheer force of my panic-driven momentum toppled us both to the ground.

He recovered from the shock of my ill-considered attack almost immediately, lunging again for the revolver, but I was faster. With greater speed and awareness than I would normally have been capable of, I managed to roll away and recover the weapon before he had regained his feet.

I stood over him with the gun in my hand, gasping for breath, and his answering stare was chillingly cold and flat. As I watched, his eyes flicked malevolently toward Holmes, as though he were contemplating how to finish what he had started, and I could control myself no longer. Fairly trembling with protective fury, I strode forward and struck him hard across the head with the butt of the revolver, and he slumped sideways onto the paving stones. After leaning down to make certain that he was unconscious, and no further threat to us, I left him without a second glance. There were more important things, now, that required my attention.

Holmes lay where he had fallen, making no move to get up, and I was seized with a terrible, irrational fear as I threw myself to the ground beside him. He was barely conscious, his breathing ragged and shallow, and to my horror, there were obvious bloodstains visible on his shirt. I reached out with a desperate, shaking hand, running my fingers across the bloody fabric in a panicked attempt to find the wound, but he stirred faintly as I touched him, reaching up to catch my wrist in a gentle, careful grip.

"It's all right, Watson," he murmured, and I stared blankly at him, unable to imagine how any of this could be all right. His fingers on my arm trembled almost imperceptibly, but his eyes locked onto mine, clear and perceptive in spite of his exhaustion. "It's not my blood."

_Of course_. I let out a twisted, strangled laugh and sat back, allowing blissful relief to wash over me. "From his bullet wound," I whispered, unnecessarily. Holmes smiled slightly, closing his eyes and allowing his grip on my wrist to slacken as I relaxed at last. Somehow, miraculously, he seemed to have emerged from the fight relatively unscathed.

"For the record," I informed him, settling back against the wall to catch my breath, "this was, without a doubt, the worst plan you've had in quite some time." At that, his eyes snapped open again, and he fixed me with an indignant look.

"On the contrary, Watson," he replied, clearly affronted, "I would say it was a distinct success." At my incredulous stare, he indicated the unconscious man on the ground nearby. "He should be able to provide us with some very useful information about the people he's working for. I daresay we'll have the whole business wrapped up within the next day or two." His tone was pleased and matter-of-fact, and I had to fight a sudden, powerful urge to strangle him.

"It was not a _distinct success_," I snapped, thoroughly exasperated. "My home was broken into, you've been attacked—Heaven knows what you've done to yourself, running through the streets in your condition. If I'd been a moment later, coming after you—" I stopped abruptly as my voice caught, remembering vividly how close I had come to witnessing his execution as he lay defenseless on the ground. My eyes stung, suddenly, and I looked away.

Fortunately, Holmes was oblivious, as always. "Trifles," he replied dismissively. "We have our man."

A dozen furious replies came to mind—_Trifles?_—but they stuck uncomfortably in my throat as he shifted slightly and tightened his grip on my wrist again, drawing in a harsh, shuddering breath at a particularly sharp stab of pain.

"So we do," I whispered finally. We disagreed, obviously, on the question of whether or not it had been worth it, but no amount of arguing was likely to change that, and under the circumstances, I hadn't the heart to lecture him further.

With an effort, I put the matter from my mind and sat in silence for a time, listening to his breathing as it slowly grew softer and more even. A thought occurred to me, and I nudged him gently with my foot, careful to avoid his injuries. "I suppose I should thank you for coming to Mary's aid, at any rate."

"Indeed," he replied, eyes lighting up thoughtfully. "It is no easy task to fire a revolver, wrong-handed, with any degree of accuracy. I am quite exceptional, I believe." I rolled my eyes at that, but couldn't bring myself to disagree.

"Although," he continued, "truthfully, your wife is rather exceptional as well. She had already managed to disarm him by time I arrived—with your blue and white porcelain vase, if I'm not mistaken." I was startled to hear a hint of admiration in his voice, as he allowed his eyes to slip closed again. "I liked her from the start, you know."

"No, you didn't," I corrected flatly.

He shrugged, conceding the point. "True. But clearly, I should have." His logic was unassailable, as always, and I was too tired to argue.

"Well," I remarked at last, "as inspiring as she may be, I certainly hope that she sent for the police after I left. Otherwise, we may have to go looking for help ourselves." He gave no reply, and I glanced over at him with some concern.

Although his breathing had grown considerably easier, and I had assured myself that his injuries were no worse than before, I was anxious to get him home and back to bed; doubtless, the cold cobblestones were not doing him any favors. Carefully, I brushed my hand across his forehead in an attempt to rouse him. "How about it, Holmes?" I asked softly, keeping my voice low and gentle. "Can you get up?"

He sighed regretfully, eyes still closed. "I'm afraid, my dear fellow, that it's quite out of the question at the moment."

His voice was noticeably weaker than it had been a few moments ago, and I nodded wordlessly, not trusting myself to speak past the lump in my throat. There was no way around it; getting him on his feet was going to hurt, and he was clearly in a fair amount of pain already, now that the intoxicating rush of adrenaline had ebbed away. If he wanted to rest here for a while longer, I had no objection. Resigning myself to a wait, I settled myself more comfortably against the wall, and he shifted a bit to rest his head against my outstretched leg.

"I would have thought you'd had enough of lying in alleyways, at least for a few days." I tried for a light, teasing tone, but my voice wavered dangerously. In truth, I was not sure that I would ever be able to mention it in jest.

Nevertheless, a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Ah, but I have the pleasure of your company this time," he murmured, nearly asleep, "which, as you see, makes a great deal of difference."

_Perhaps it does_, I reflected, a little wistfully. If only things were that simple.


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N:**__ Well, guys, here is the conclusion of the story; I hope it meets with everyone's approval. I've really had fun writing this, and your comments have been lovely, so thanks again :)_

* * *

It took the better part of an hour for Scotland Yard to arrive on the scene, by which time my bad leg had become uncomfortably stiff, and I was beginning to worry that our unconscious prisoner would awaken and wander off before he could be taken into custody. I enlisted the help of a passing constable to maneuver Holmes upright, but he sagged against me almost immediately, and I was obliged to support nearly all of his weight as we made our unsteady way toward one of the police carriages. Given his semi-conscious state, it was not difficult to convince the officials that our statements would have to be given at a later time, and I was, at last, permitted to take my friend home to rest.

Getting him up the front steps and into the bedroom was a formidable task, as he provided very little assistance in the matter, but I breathed a sigh of relief once he was settled comfortably on the bed. He was asleep the instant his body touched the coverlet, and after a moment's hesitation, I pulled off his boots and left him to it. I hadn't the energy to struggle with undressing him or tucking him between the sheets, and in his current state, I doubted very much that he would mind.

As for myself, I had finally reached the limit of my endurance, both mental and physical. Between my sleepless night and the morning's thoroughly exhausting activities, I summarily canceled my patient appointments for the day without a shred of guilt. After taking a few moments to return the recently invaded sitting room to some semblance of order, I proceeded down the hallway, drew the blinds, and crawled wearily into my own bed. My last coherent thought was a fervent wish not to be disturbed until suppertime, at least.

******

Astoundingly, for the first time in the past several days, the fates aligned in my favor; I was allowed to sleep straight through until the following morning, when Mary woke me at last to say that Lestrade had arrived to discuss the case. After a hurried attempt to make myself presentable, I entered the sitting room to find the inspector surveying the remains of the broken window with an air of quiet amazement. Not surprisingly, he was already engaged in conversation with Holmes, who was lounging in an armchair across from him, still wearing his rumpled clothing from the day before and looking much brighter and more alert than I felt. It didn't seem fair, in a way, but I had given up my envy of his extraordinarily resilient constitution long ago.

Holmes glanced up as I pulled the door closed behind me. "Impeccable timing, Watson," he stated, by way of greeting. "I was just enlightening the inspector on the events of yesterday morning."

"I see." I eyed him warily, taking a seat in the other armchair. "Well, I don't suppose I have much to add; as you know, my role was relatively brief. I only arrived on the scene after you had already leaped out the window, chasing a dangerous criminal through the streets like a madman." Pointedly, I raised an eyebrow in his direction, daring him to contradict my words.

"_Apprehending the suspect_, I believe, is the phrase you're looking for," he answered crisply. I considered setting the record straight as to who, exactly, had apprehended the suspect, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. In any case, his attention was already elsewhere, as he pressed Lestrade for details on the status of the investigation.

"Oh, he's been very helpful," said the inspector, in answer to Holmes' queries about their progress in questioning his assailant. "He was the same man who attacked you the first time, I take it?"

"He was," Holmes confirmed, mouth twitching wryly. "I confess, I was most grateful for Watson's assistance—it would have been thoroughly embarrassing to be bested twice in a row." His eyes flicked toward me for the briefest instant, allowing me to glimpse the sincerity behind the remark, before he returned his attention to our guest.

"Well," Lestrade continued heavily, "It took some doing, but he's given us a lot to work with—we've got names and details on the rest of the ring. The boys are making arrests as we speak." He was clearly pleased with the outcome of the case, although he tried to suppress it beneath his habitual mask of professionalism, and he nodded at Holmes in grudging appreciation.

My friend, characteristically, brushed aside the implied thanks with a careless wave of his hand. "Excellent," he declared, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he leaned back in his chair. He inclined his head graciously toward Lestrade with only the barest hint of a smile. "You are to be congratulated, Inspector—Scotland Yard has prevailed again."

Lestrade gave a long-suffering sigh as he rose from his seat, ignoring the taunt with the ease of long practice. To my surprise, he turned to me, extending his hand. "It's been a pleasure working with you again, Doctor," he said, with an odd sort of formality. "Thank you for your help."

I nodded wordlessly, returning his handshake, but something inside me ached at the unaccustomed display of politeness. It was the kind of courteous thanks given to someone who has provided aid that was not expected or required, and I was startled at how much it stung. I was a married man and a busy doctor now; it was no longer usual for me to assist with Holmes' cases, and never before had I felt my new position so keenly.

I saw the inspector out, leaving Holmes to his own devices in the sitting room. After he had gone, I stood in the foyer for a time, struggling to sort out my thoughts. The case was concluded, and Holmes was rapidly recovering, and in the whirlwind of the past few days, I had never stopped to think about what would happen next. But now, of course, it was obvious; Holmes would soon return to Baker Street, and we would resume our relations as they had existed since my marriage. My life would return to normal, allowing me to focus once more on my medical practice, and I would call on my friend occasionally for short social visits, with no need to involve myself in his tumultuous affairs. It should have been a distinct relief, but I felt only a vague emptiness, and a curious sense of loss.

Feeling as though I had decided something, although I wasn't quite certain what, I wandered back down the hallway in something of a daze. Such was my preoccupation that I nearly collided with Mary, rounding the corner from the kitchen. She laughed, sidestepping me easily, but her face became serious again as she took in my expression.

"What's the matter, John?" Her voice was kind and concerned, as always, and I struggled for the words to explain something that I didn't fully understand myself.

"Mary, I—" I stopped, not knowing how to finish. "I can't give it up." Reluctantly, I met her eyes, begging her to understand. Without my ever realizing it, working cases with Holmes had become as much a part of my life as my practice, or even my marriage, and I could not set aside one for the other.

Confusion showed on her delicate features, as my words doubtless made no sense without context, but I glanced past her into the sitting room. She followed my gaze to where it rested on my eccentric, unpredictable friend, still curled contentedly in his chair, and her face cleared in comprehension.

Regarding me with a resigned little half-smile, she shook her head gently. "John," she said at last, "I never asked you to." With that, she leaned in to press a light, reassuring kiss to my cheek, and continued on down the hall. I watched her go, as the heavy knot inside me began to untangle itself.

Perhaps, I thought. Perhaps, somehow, it would be possible to make everything work.

******

As I had expected, Holmes was back in his own rooms within the week, and the house soon returned to its usual, peaceful state. I was, of course, pleased to see him recovering well, but I cannot deny that I missed his ubiquitous presence almost at once. And so it was that, less than a day after his departure from my home, I found myself on the doorstep of 221b Baker Street just in time for afternoon tea.

Mrs. Hudson greeted me warmly, as ever, inquiring about my practice and my wife. I sometimes suspected that she regretted my absence nearly as much as Holmes did, given that I had exercised some control, however slight, over his disruptive activities. With a last, backward glance, she returned to the kitchen to prepare a tray for us as I ascended the familiar staircase, pausing to knock lightly on the door at the top before entering.

The discordant plucking of violin strings drifting from Holmes' study suggested that he had been lost in some reverie, but the sounds stopped as I closed the door behind me, and my friend emerged moments later, surprise evident on his face.

"Watson," he cried, clearly pleased to see me. "Come, sit down." He waved me toward my usual chair, sprawling across the settee in his habitual careless manner. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Surely you cannot be longing for my company already—you've only just got me out of your spare room."

"Hardly," I scoffed, because it was part of our game. "It's been a great relief, actually. You are an unusually trying houseguest."

"I do my best," he agreed, barely suppressing a smile.

As luck would have it, we were forced to suspend our conversation briefly as Mrs. Hudson entered with tea and sandwiches, and I was spared the difficulty of explaining why I had come. In truth, I wasn't sure myself, and had no desire to admit it. Holmes glanced up at his landlady in mild annoyance at the interruption as she bustled about, setting out the plates and teacups, and I thanked her for us both. At last, the door clicked shut behind her, and for a time there was no sound except the soft clinking of cups against saucers.

I took the opportunity to observe Holmes as he ate; discreetly, I hoped, although there was little chance that he wouldn't notice. He looked well, apart from a certain stiffness in his bearing and the sling that still supported his injured arm, and I was deeply gratified to see it. After the events of the past few days, it was not easy to banish my well-established concerns for his health, and I supposed, reluctantly, that it was partly for this reason that I had wanted to see him. Not surprisingly, he soon raised an exasperated eyebrow, setting down the remains of his sandwich with a theatrical sigh.

"Well, Doctor," he drawled, with sardonic emphasis on the title, "if you wish to examine me, I'd be much obliged if you could wait until I've finished eating. It's rather distracting, you see."

Caught, I smiled ruefully. "My apologies." With an effort, I returned my attention to Mrs. Hudson's excellent meal, and we finished our tea in silence.

At length, I replaced my cup and saucer on the tray with an air of finality, suddenly tense. Here, it would be entirely appropriate for me to take my leave; I had assured myself that Holmes was fine, and we had enjoyed a brief, pleasant interlude together. Nothing more was expected in the course of a simple social call, and there were undoubtedly things that I could be doing back at my office. Catching up on my patient records, perhaps, or organizing my appointment book. Necessary tasks, but the thought of them was stifling, at the moment, and I made no move to stand.

Holmes watched me curiously, knowing as well as I did that this was the point where my visits usually ended, and I felt a tiny rush of satisfaction at my ability to disconcert him from time to time. I stretched deliberately, extending my feet in front of me and relaxing more deeply into the armchair. "So tell me," I said conversationally, "have you managed to find yourself a new case?"

"As a matter of fact," he replied, with a gratifying spark of enthusiasm, "I've been sorting through the post that arrived while I was away, and there is a rather intriguing letter in the stack from a prospective client." I waited, as he seemed to hesitate for a moment, strangely uncertain. "I had thought of paying the gentleman a visit this afternoon. I wonder if, perhaps, you have time for a short trip?" He studied his teacup with determined nonchalance, but I did not miss the shrouded glimmer of eagerness in his eyes as he glanced up at me.

I made a show of checking my watch. "Well, as you know, I'm a busy man these days."

"Of course," he acknowledged, his face carefully expressionless.

"However," I continued, allowing the corner of my mouth to turn up at last, "as it happens, I have no appointments scheduled for this afternoon." I snapped the watch shut and returned it to my pocket, observing him intently for his reaction.

He sat very still. "It seems," he ventured cautiously, "that we have some time, then, before you must return."

"We do, indeed." I confirmed, leaning forward in my chair. "I am yours to command."

Finally certain of my intentions, he raised his eyes to mine and favored me with a rare, unguarded smile, full of open affection. It was an expression that very few people in the world, apart from myself, have ever been privileged to see, and it struck me, not for the first time, what a very great honor it was to call Sherlock Holmes my friend.

He cleared his throat. "And I am very glad of it," he answered quietly. In the next instant, he seemed to shake himself out of his uncharacteristic sentimentality, returning to the business at hand. "But come Watson, I must give you the details." He handed me the letter to read for myself as he collected his coat and hat, and by the time we reached the stairs, he was discoursing rapidly on the various routes of inquiry we might pursue in the case.

A light drizzle was falling, and I employed my umbrella as we stepped into the street. Holmes, naturally, had neglected to bring his, and so was obliged to crowd awkwardly beneath mine to keep dry. We fell into step as easily as ever, two complementary parts of a single whole, and my spirits were unaccountably light in spite of the rain.


End file.
